


Whoever Said That Being Ill Is One of the Great Pleasures of Life Has Clearly Never Had the Flu and Also Should Go To Hell

by aintitnifty



Category: Gintama
Genre: Because Everyone Needs Sick Fic, Gen, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:38:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aintitnifty/pseuds/aintitnifty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Okita thinks he's dying and Hijikata just wants a goddamn smoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whoever Said That Being Ill Is One of the Great Pleasures of Life Has Clearly Never Had the Flu and Also Should Go To Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this fic for 84 years...
> 
> I have a lot of Shinsengumi feelings to get out of my system, guys.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> *
> 
> Title comes from a Samuel Butler quote: “ _I reckon being ill as one of the great pleasures of life, provided one is not too ill and is not obliged to work till one is better._ ” (1903)

Hijikata awoke to the sound of Okita retching in the next room and knew he was screwed.

He rolled over onto his back and stayed very still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the pathetic sounds coming from Okita’s room. He knew what was coming. This had happened a few times before when they were younger, albeit rarely, and every time it was the same: miserable sounds from the next room (or the next futon, back when they were still at the dojo), followed by a period of terrible silence, followed by—

“Hijikata-saaaan.”

Hijikata squeezed his eyes shut. He could pretend to be asleep. It was still early in the morning, the sky was just barely starting to get light, it wouldn’t be a stretch for him to still be sound asleep.

“ _Hijikaaataaa-saaaaaaan._ ”

Hijikata slid his pillow from beneath his head and pressed it over his face.

“Hijikata-san, I know you’re awake.”

Okita’s voice was hoarse and weak, barely audible through the fusuma separating their rooms. Hijikata slowly pulled the pillow down so that he could glare past its edge at the ceiling.

He could leave. He could ignore the whining, slip outside, and get on with his day. Okita would be fine, there were plenty of other people around headquarters, someone would find him eventually and get him whatever he needed. So yeah, Hijikata could leave. He could. He—

“Hijikata—“ Okita broke off, coughing harshly.

… Damnit.

Hijikata slammed his pillow onto the floor, shoved off his blankets, and got to his feet, adjusting his pajamas as he went.

“All right, all right, I’m coming,” he snapped. He didn’t even pause to knock on Okita’s door before he slid it open and barged inside. Okita was curled up in the fetal position on his futon, the blankets twisted around his legs, his arms wrapped around his pillow. There was a puddle of something near his head that Hijikata pointedly pretended not to see, and Okita’s face was pale and glistening with sweat as he stared up at Hijikata with glassy eyes, breathing hard.

“Hijikata-san,” he said, “I think I’m dying.”

Hijikata sighed and stepped over to Okita’s futon, kneeling beside him (a good distance from the definitely still unnoticed puddle). He brushed aside Okita’s bangs and pressed his hand to Okita’s damp forehead.

“You’re not dying,” he said, frowning slightly as he shifted his hand from Okita’s forehead to his cheek, “but you do have a pretty high fever.” He sat back on his heels. “Just stay in bed, I’ll go get Kondou—”

“You’re leaving?” Okita said, sounding scandalized, but pathetically so.

Hijikata blinked at him. “Only for a few minutes.”

“But I’m dying.”

Hijikata scowled. “You’re not dying, you’re sick.”

“No.” Okita flopped onto his back, covering his eyes with one wrist. “No, Hijikata-san. This is the end. I can see it.”

“Okay, sure,” Hijikata said, preparing to stand. “Meanwhile, I’m gonna go—”

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me on my deathbed. What would Kondou-san say?”

“Goddamnit, you’re not—” Hijikata broke off with yet another sigh, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “All right, fine. Do you really want to drag yourself out of bed to go see Kondou?” Okita nodded weakly. Hijikata rolled his eyes. “Christ. Okay, c’mere.” He grabbed Okita’s arm and slung it across his shoulders, then heaved Okita to his feet, letting him lean heavily against his side.

“You smell like cigarettes,” Okita muttered into the fabric covering Hijikata’s shoulder.

“If you don’t like it, you can get back in bed,” Hijikata grumbled. “You good?” Okita gave another weak nod, and Hijikata tightened his grip. “Throw up on me and I’ll kill you.”

*

Kondou fell on Okita like a mother hen clucking over her brood as soon as they stumbled into his room, and after checking his temperature (cupping Okita’s cheeks, brushing back Okita’s bangs, and then pressing his lips to Okita’s forehead, the way he used to do when Okita was small), bombarding him with questions (“Do you feel nauseous? Have you thrown up? Are you dizzy? Have you had anything to drink?”), and generally making a giant fuss (“Toushi, why did you drag him all the way here, he clearly needs rest!”), he declared Okita too sick to work and ordered him straight back into bed for however long it took him to get well.

“Can you keep an eye on him today?” Hijikata asked, adjusting his hold on Okita to keep him from sliding to the floor. The kid was leaning more heavily against him now, apparently already at the limit of his strength.

“I wish I could,” Kondou said, “but I swore to the old man that I’d be with him while he accompanies the Shogun this morning. Can’t you watch him?”

“If you’re going to be with the Shogun, then I need to be available as vice-commander,” Hijikata said. “Someone has to keep these asshats in line.”

“Well, we’re not leaving him on his own when he’s this sick.”

"I think I'm gonna hurl again," Okita mumbled, mostly into Hijikata's chest.

"Please don't," Hijikata said.

"See?" Kondou said. "We can't leave him alone. Someone has to look after him. What about Yamazaki?"

"You think Yamazaki has the fortitude to deal with a sick Sougo?" Hijikata asked.

Kondou was quiet for a second, considering that, and then he said, "You're _sure_ you can't watch him?"

"I'd really rather not. Look, can we just find someone—"

Okita started coughing again, his eyes squeezed shut and his shoulders hunched. Hijikata sighed and squeezed Okita's waist, tugging him more firmly against his side.

"What about the Yorozuya?” he asked Kondou, keeping his voice low. “They do this kind of shit, don't they?"

"It's worth a shot,” Kondou said, his brow furrowed in concern. "I'd say babysitting qualifies as an odd job. Can you take him there?"

"I can spare an hour or so. I’ll see if they’re free."

"Thank you, Toushi. And you—" Kondou stepped forward so he could cup Okita's cheeks again; Okita forced his eyes open and made a face at him, but didn't pull away. "You just get better, okay?" Kondou ruffled Okita's hair, eliciting a weak noise of protest, and then gave Hijikata a grateful nod. “Take care of him.”

“Yes, sir.”

*

And that's how Hijikata ended up dragging a half-conscious teenager through the drizzly streets of Edo. Okita was bundled up in his pajamas and an overlarge coat (one of Kondou’s), a stark contrast to Hijikata’s crisp black uniform, and Hijikata could feel eyes on them, clearly wondering why an officer was escorting a pale, miserable teenager through the Kabuki district.

“Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?” Okita grumbled.

“It wasn’t raining when we left,” Hijikata said. (It had definitely been raining when they left.) “Besides, you’re already sick, what do you care?”

Okita screwed up his face. “I care about getting sicker, idiot—” He broke off, coughing again; Hijikata frowned and hitched Okita’s arm more securely over his shoulders.

“We’re almost there,” he grumbled. “Quit your whining.”

Okita kicked out one foot, making Hijikata stumble.

“Goddamnit, Sougo,” Hijikata snapped, hurriedly recovering his balance. “Don’t think I won’t drop you.”

“That would be very inconsiderate of you, Hijikata-san.”

“Then don’t trip me.”

“I didn’t trip you, I stumbled. I’m sick, I can’t control my feet.”

“I swear to god—”

“Is it just me, or did it start raining harder?”

Hijikata sighed and stared up into the drizzly sky. “Just a little farther.”

The stairs leading up the Yorozuya’s place were a challenge, and Okita was huffing and trembling by the time they made it to the door. Hijikata pounded on the wood with a closed fist until he heard a deep, muffled voice cursing at him from within, followed by stumbling footsteps, a distant crash, and the reedy whining of a much younger, much more female voice.

“We’re closed, damnit!” the deep voice yelled over the whining. “Come back tomorrow!”

“It’s freezing out here,” Hijikata yelled back. “Open up or I’ll kick the damn door down.”

The voice went quiet for a stunned moment, and then Hijikata heard more grumbling, dark and unintelligible and getting progressively closer.

The door slid open to reveal a frazzled Sakata Gintoki, his heavy-lidded eyes narrowed, his hair a tangled mess. He was still wearing his pajamas, and he had a towel slung over one shoulder and a glass of water in one hand.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Sougo’s sick,” Hijikata said, jerking his head towards the limp weight at his side. “We’re willing to pay you to watch him for the day, if you’re up for the job.”

“Gin-chaaaan,” came the whiny voice again, this time much louder and clearly distinguishable as Kagura. “Where’s my water?”

Gintoki glanced over his shoulder, looking briefly harried. “I can’t today,” he told Hijikata. “I’ve got my hands full with my own germ factories.”

“Gin-saaaan.” Another voice, largely stifled by what Hijikata would guess was probably a blanket or two or six, but still vaguely familiar. “Did you get the medicine?”

“In a minute, Gin-san has a bit of a nuisance to deal with right now,” Gintoki called over his shoulder.

Hijikata watched this exchange with dread settling low in his stomach. He’d thought that dragging Okita along with him would be a surefire way to get the Yorozuya to agree to babysit; Gintoki had always seemed weirdly fond of Okita (or at least as fond as anyone could be of Okita) and Hijikata had been hoping that it would be much harder for Gintoki to say no to helping out when he was faced with how sick and pathetic and shivery Okita looked, but Hijikata hadn’t thought to factor in two more sick kids.

“Is that all you needed?” Gintoki asked Hijikata, sounding distracted. “Because I can’t really stand around here all day, I have to—”

“Tag-team,” Hijikata grumbled.

Gintoki blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Tag-team babysitting,” Hijikata said. “I’ll help you take care of the kids if you don’t make me drag this one all the way back to headquarters in the rain. And since Kondou fronted me the cash, I’ll still pay, if that sweetens the deal. Agreed?”

Gintoki frowned, about to retort, but then Okita started coughing again, sounding, if anything, even more pathetic than he had before. Hijikata suspected he might have been hamming it up, but Gintoki was watching Okita carefully, looking concerned, so at least it was working.

Sure enough, once the coughing fit had passed, Gintoki sighed and ran a hand through his flyaway hair, then stepped aside to let them in.

“Fine,” he said. “But you pull your weight, or you’re both out.”

The main room was over-warm and smelled faintly of stale sweat and damp fabric. Shinpachi was buried beneath a mound of blankets on one couch, only his dark head visible from across the room. Kagura was sprawled across two futons on the floor near the closet, her face flushed, hair sticking up at all angles.

“Gin-chaaaaan, I need water,” she whined, kicking out to completely dislodge the blankets that had been wrapped around her legs.

“Futons are over there,” Gin told Hijikata, pointing at the half-open closet door as he hurried to hand Kagura the glass of water he’d been holding. “I trust you know how to set one up.”

“Piss off.” Hijikata stooped to help Okita settle himself on the remaining couch, and then he headed for the closet, carefully stepping around Kagura’s giant, blanket-strewn nest. He slid the door open a little wider and almost jumped out of his skin when huge dark eyes blinked up at him. The Yorozuya’s gigantic dog yipped a greeting, tail thudding deafeningly against the wall.

“You can piss off, too,” Hijikata grumbled, reaching over the dog for one of the extra futons and a few blankets.

“Gin-chan, there’s an asshole on our couch,” Kagura said. “Am I hallucinating or do I have to get up and kill him?”

“I’d skewer you before you could crawl off that futon, China idiot,” Okita said from his position bent double on the couch, his voice muffled by his knees.

“Neither of you will do any such thing,” Gintoki said, using one foot to roll Kagura back onto her futon from where she had tried to drag herself across the floor to get to Okita. “You’re sick. No moving.”

“But Gin-chan—”

“No moving!”

Hijikata eyed the only free space on the floor that would fit a futon, which was dangerously close to where Kagura was lying.

“This seems problematic,” he said.

Gintoki glanced over from where he was handing Shinpachi a bottle of pills and a small glass of water. “Just put the dog between them.”

Hijikata gave him a flat stare. “You can’t be serious.”

Gintoki fixed him with a Look. Hijikata rolled his eyes and spread the futon out on the floor, then stepped back over to the closet and slid the door open.

“Okay, you. Out,” he said. The dog just wagged at him, panting happily. Hijikata moved aside and extended an arm towards the space between the futons. “Lie down over there.” The dog yipped at him, but didn’t move. Hijikata frowned. “… Please move?”

“Sadaharuuuu,” Kagura said. The dog’s ears perked, and he heaved his huge body out of the closet and past Hijikata to flop down beside Kagura’s futon. She rolled over and pressed her face into his fur with a sigh.

Okita eyed the dog with mistrust as Hijikata helped him to his feet and they made their shuffling way over to the futon.

“What if it rolls over onto me?” Okita asked, letting Hijikata gently lower him onto the futon.

Hijikata helped him out of the rain-soaked jacket, which got tossed over the back of the nearest couch. “Then it was nice knowing you.”

Okita glared up at Hijikata, then curled into a ball on the futon.

“I need blankets,” he groused.

“I was getting there,” Hijikata said, already heading back to the closet. He swiped a pile of clean-looking blankets off the top shelf and slid the door shut, then dropped the entire pile on top of Okita, who let out a quiet squawk of indignation. “Your blankets, highness,” he said.

Okita kicked out at him weakly; Hijikata dodged in one smooth step.

“I’m going to start heating up breakfast,” Gintoki said, still looking harried. “Either of you want anything?”

Okita groaned into the blankets covering his face and curled into a ball on the futon.

“Nothing yet for the vomit-machine here,” Hijikata said, nudging Okita with his foot, “but I wouldn’t be opposed to whatever you’re having. I haven’t eaten yet today.”

“Join the club,” Gintoki grumbled, and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Hijikata alone with the kids.

Three sick, miserable, germ-spewing kids.

Hijikata sighed and shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of the nearest couch. He rolled up his sleeves and fished his cell phone out of his pocket to fire off a quick text to Kondou: _staying with sougo at the yorozuya’s place. all the kids are sick, perm-head needed some help. don’t do anything stupid while we’re gone. call if you need me._

Satisfied, Hijikata stuffed the phone back into his pocket and took a look around the room. Okita had completely cocooned himself into the blankets on his futon, only the top of his head visible. Kagura was drooling into the white fur of the dog’s front paw, which the dog apparently didn’t mind in the least. Shinpachi looked to be asleep, too, but just when Hijikata thought it might be safe for him to sneak outside and grab his first cigarette of the day, Shinpachi started coughing.

“Gin-san,” Shinpachi said, his voice hoarse. “Can you—” He broke off into another fit of coughs.

“Hey.” Hijikata stepped over, leaning into Shinpachi’s limited field of vision. “Your boss is cooking up some breakfast. You need something?”

“Hijikata-san,” Shinpachi said, squinting up at him; he wasn’t wearing his glasses. “Can you please get me some more water?”

“Sure thing, kid. I’ll be right back.” Hijikata grabbed a small glass from the table near the couch and headed into the kitchen, which smelled surprisingly good, like warm, rich miso. Gintoki was fussing with something on the stove, and Hijikata watched him from the corner of his eye as he filled up the glass with water.

“You can cook?” he asked, twisting the faucet off.

“I can cook,” Gintoki said.

Hijikata hummed. Part of him wanted to admit that it smelled delicious, but instead he just said, “Hope it doesn’t kill me,” and headed back into the living room before Gintoki could snap a reply.

“Here.” Hijikata touched Shinpachi’s head lightly to get his attention and held out the glass of water. “You’ll have to sit up a little to drink.”

Shinpachi nodded weakly and struggled into a sitting position. His skin was pale, and he looked weirdly smaller and much squintier without his glasses on, but he managed to get upright and take the glass from Hijikata with shaking fingers.

“Thank you, Hijikata-san,” he said.

“No problem.”

“Are you staying here all day, do you think?”

“Until I can take Sougo back to headquarters without killing him in this weather, yeah, I think so,” Hijikata said.

“Flu?” Shinpachi looked sympathetic, which was endearing and also a little hilarious, given his own current state.

“Seems like it.”

Shinpachi nodded sagely and set aside the empty glass. “Thanks for helping out, Hijikata-san.”

Hijikata rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s no problem, really. Need anything else?”

“Just sleep, I think,” Shinpachi said with a weak smile, tugging the blankets over himself. 

Hijikata was considering trying to step out for a cigarette again when a hand shot out from the blanket pile that was Okita’s futon and latched onto his ankle with surprising strength.

“Hijikata-saaaan,” Okita whined. “Waterrrr.”

Hijikata heaved a sigh. “You’ll have to let go of me first.”

The hand retreated beneath the covers, and Hijikata stepped into the kitchen for the second time in as many minutes to find Gintoki ladling steaming miso soup into four bowls.

“Glasses?” Hijikata asked.

“Cupboard next to the fridge.”

Hijikata stepped over to the indicated cupboard and reached up for a glass.

“Smells good,” he said before he could stop himself, and he winced when he saw Gintoki shoot him an odd look.

“Thanks,” Gintoki said, sounding suspicious. He picked up two of the bowls and nodded to the two left on the counter. “One of those is yours, when you’re ready for it.”

Hijikata grunted as he ran the tap, filling the glass he’d pulled down. This day was going to get weird, he could already tell.

Gintoki had made Kagura and Shinpachi sit up for their soup, Shinpachi still looking pale, Kagura bleary and only half-awake. Gintoki crouched beside her and rubbed her back as she slurped her soup, and that seemed to make it go down easily.

“Oi, Sougo,” Hijikata said, nudging Okita’s blanket pile with his foot. “Water.”

Okita slowly pulled the blankets away from his face and glared up at Hijikata, then petulantly stuck out a hand.

“You have to sit up to drink,” Hijikata said, and he couldn’t believe he’d now told that to two teenagers within five minutes.

“Help me up,” Okita mumbled, mostly into the blankets.

Hijikata rolled his eyes, but he knelt carefully beside Okita’s futon and reached out with his free hand to help the kid struggle into a sitting position. Okita leaned against his shoulder as he took the glass of water from Hijikata’s hand, and Hijikata couldn’t tell whether Okita’s cheeks were red from the fever or from embarrassment, but he decided not to bring it up; he’d cut the kid some slack, if only for today.

*

The day passed in a hazy blur. Hijikata barely remembered inhaling his breakfast (which was surprisingly good, although he’d be damned if he let Gintoki know; his empty bowl would have to be proof enough) before he was summoned to Okita’s side again, this time to remove some of his blankets as his temperature spiked. Hijikata fetched medicine, water, magazines, crackers, and even a toothbrush, at one point, and it wasn’t until mid-afternoon that he finally managed to escape for his first cigarette of the day, which was interrupted far too soon by Gintoki sliding open the door and grumbling that Okita was awake again and needed more water and refused to accept it from Gintoki.

And that was how Hijikata ended up slumped against the couch next to Okita’s futon, half-asleep in the dim evening light, savoring the first moment of quiet in hours (and wishing he could enjoy it with a goddamn cigarette). Shinpachi had rolled onto a futon near Kagura at some point during the afternoon, and now all three of the Yorozuya were curled up together across the room, snoring softly.

A half-muffled whimper startled Hijikata from his doze, and he looked down to see Okita shivering again beneath his blankets. Okita’s face was flushed, his hair plastered in sweaty tendrils to his forehead. His eyelashes were dark and damp ( _with sweat_ , Hijikata told himself, panicking slightly, _that has to be sweat_ ) against his cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut, clearly in pain.

Hijikata reached out and gingerly placed a hand on Okita’s forehead, and then his cheek.

“Shit, you’re burning up again,” he said, mostly to himself; Okita didn’t seem to be in any state to reply. With a sigh, Hijikata started to rise to his feet so he could fetch a cool cloth for Okita’s forehead, but before he could stand, slim fingers snagged his sleeve, jerking him to a halt. Hijikata froze, eyes wide, staring down at Okita’s face. Okita’s eyes were still closed, his head turned stubbornly away.

“Sougo?” Hijikata said. His only response was a tightening and a slight tug at the grip on his sleeve, keeping him on his knees. “Okay,” Hijikata said, calmly, quietly, like he was talking down a wild animal. He shifted so that he was kneeling comfortably again. “Okay, I’m here. I won’t go anywhere.”

Okita exhaled softly, apparently in relief, which was bizarre, really, but Hijikata decided not to question it. The kid was probably delusional from the fever. After all, he was still clutching Hijikata’s sleeve.

Hijikata craned his neck so that he could see where the Yorozuya were lying on the futons nearby, curled up like kittens beneath the blankets.

“ _Psst_ ,” Hijikata hissed. “Oi. Gintoki.”

A grunt from within the blankets.

“Sougo’s fever is up again. Can you get me a cold cloth?”

“Get it yourself.”

“I can’t.”

A tousled head lifted from the blanket pile, and bleary red eyes squinted at him suspiciously. Gintoki’s brow cleared when he saw Okita’s hand curled tightly into Hijikata’s sleeve, and he heaved a sigh, rubbing at his hair.

“Yeah, all right,” he said, clambering to his feet. Kagura made a quiet sound of protest when Gintoki moved, but a gentle hand on her hair soothed her again. He padded quietly into the kitchen and returned a moment later wringing out a damp cloth. He tossed the cloth to Hijikata, who caught it in one hand.

“Thanks,” Hijikata said, pressing the cloth carefully to Okita’s forehead, beneath his sweaty bangs.

Gintoki grunted and settled once again between Kagura and Shinpachi. Kagura automatically turned into him, still mostly asleep, and slung an arm across his waist; even Shinpachi curled closer.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Hijikata trying to ignore the way he could feel Gintoki’s disconcertingly intent gaze burning into the top of his head. Instead, Hijikata focused on Okita, being sure to shift the cool cloth from his forehead, to his flushed cheeks, to the nape of his neck. Okita’s fingers were still curled tightly into his sleeve, and he had pressed himself close against Hijikata’s leg, half-hiding his face against the fabric of Hijikata’s slacks.

“Why do you do it?” Gintoki asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Hijikata looked up. “Do what?”

“Look after him.” Gintoki rearranged the blankets over Kagura, pulling them snugly up to her shoulders from where her shifting had dislodged them. 

Hijikata pressed the cloth gently to Okita’s forehead, beneath his bangs, pointedly avoiding Gintoki’s sharp gaze. “Because he’s sick, and he’s a little shit who needs looking after.”

“Well, yeah,” Gintoki said. “I could say the same about these two little shits, but at least I know that my little shits actually like me. What’s your excuse?”

“What do you want me to say?” Hijikata asked, scowling. “That I’m secretly plotting something? Trying to get him in my debt? Waiting until he’s at his weakest before I make my move? I’m not the sadist here, remember.”

Gintoki just shrugged.

“Look,” Hijikata said, frowning down at Okita’s sleeping face, “he might be a sadistic little prick, but he’s still just a kid.” Okita truly looked his age, when he was asleep, when there was no murderous gleam in his eye, no sardonic smile adding years to his face. He looked like a teenager, and an exhausted one at that. “And… I don’t know. Sickness is kind of a thing with him. Especially after… you know.” Gintoki nodded, acknowledging the unspoken name, heavy in the darkness. “So… yeah. I look after him. I guess I feel kinda responsible for him, after all these years. It’s more habit than anything else, but who really keeps track at this point, right?”

Gintoki hummed deep in his throat, one hand absently petting Kagura’s hair.

“Makes sense,” he conceded, voice low.

“Is that the answer you were looking for?” Hijikata asked, unable to keep some heat from his voice.

Gintoki raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, but his gaze was still far too penetrating for Hijikata’s liking.

“Whatever,” Hijikata muttered, focusing his attention on Okita again. Okita was breathing more easily, and his skin had lost some of its redness, so Hijikata removed the cloth from his forehead and slung it over his own shoulder. He brushed his fingers over Okita’s cheek and was pleased to feel only a normal amount of warmth.

Hijikata could have sworn he saw Gintoki smiling at them from the corner of his eye, but when he looked up, Gintoki had already closed his eyes and appeared to be dozing off.

With a sigh, Hijikata scooted sideways until he was half-on Okita’s futon, and then he lay down, closed his eyes, and let himself drift. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was the sensation of fingers closing gently around his forearm.

*

Hijikata woke to the cool kiss of steel against his throat. He opened his eyes slowly to find Okita leaning over him in the darkness, one hand curled around the hilt of a small blade.

“’the hell time is it?” Hijikata grumbled, reaching up with one hand to rub the sleep from his eye.

“Why are you in my bed?”

“Because you wouldn’t let me leave, idiot. And this isn’t your bed, it’s the Yorozuya’s bed. Can we remove the knife from my neck, please? Where did you even get that?”

Okita wasn’t paying attention; he was looking around the room in mild befuddlement.

“How long have we been here?” he asked.

“Just for the day.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“Why the hell would I lie about something this stupid? And seriously, the knife?”

The pressure against his throat lessened a bit, but the blade didn’t go away.

“How are you feeling?” Hijikata asked.

“Hungry,” Okita said. “And sweaty.”

“Thirty-six hours without food or a bath will do that.”

Okita made a face, and then sighed lightly, stowed the knife (where, Hijikata had no idea), and rolled onto his back so that he and Hijikata were lying side by side on the futon.

They didn’t speak for about a minute, and then Okita said, quietly, “I hate this.”

Hijikata didn’t look at him. “I know,” he said.

Okita was silent for a few more seconds. Hijikata glanced at him and saw that his hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles bloodless and tense, and for a moment Hijikata considered reaching out to him, but he stopped himself, unsure of how that would be received. Hijikata could guess what—or, rather, who—was on Okita’s mind at that moment, and he figured the less he insinuated himself into any of Okita’s memories of Mitsuba, the better.

Hijikata hadn’t been lying when he’d told Gintoki that sickness was a sensitive issue for Okita. Ever since his sister had passed, Okita had been wary of the slow, creeping threat of illness. He fretted anytime Kondou developed so much as a cough, and there was even one weekend when Hijikata had come down with food poisoning and been unable to move from his futon for a few hours, and Okita had ended up hovering near his room constantly (although, honestly, that could have been a hallucination, considering how badly off Hijikata had been for a while there).

Okita hated sickness. Okita hated feeling helpless when sickness took hold of those he was close to. And Okita hated being sick.

“How long have I been sleeping?” Okita asked.

“About eight hours or so, I think,” Hijikata said, “depending on what time it is.”

“And you’ve been here the whole time?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.”

The silence returned, for so long that Hijikata thought Okita had gone back to sleep. He’d just closed his own eyes when he heard Okita shift beside him.

“… Thanks.”

Okita’s voice was muffled, barely audible even in the quiet of the Yorozuya’s apartment, and Hijikata wondered for a moment if he’d heard him correctly.

“You’re, uh—don’t mention it,” he said, unable to keep himself from sounding rather bemused.

“And I might be a sadistic little prick, but I’m not a kid,” Okita added, staring at the ceiling. “I can take care of myself.”

Hijikata rolled his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. “You were awake for that?”

Okita said nothing. Hijikata shoved him.

“Dumbass.”

A gleam of steal in the darkness. “Don’t make me stab you.”

Hijikata closed his eyes. “Go to sleep, Sougo.”

And, miraculously, Okita did just that.


End file.
